


Command

by StolenVampires



Category: Drifters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: BDSM notes, F/M, PWP, Power Dynamic, here to rummage in the sin bin of the fandom, its me the trash bandit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 11:18:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10966140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StolenVampires/pseuds/StolenVampires
Summary: In war, you obeyed your commander. In lust, you obeyed your desires. In obedience, you were rewarded.





	Command

She hated him. 

Actually, no, hate was too strong a word, she found him and his antic utterly humiliating and condescending. There were almost no redeeming qualities to this man and he went out of his way at time to prove just how vicious and brutal he could be.

So, while she did not hate him, she found him and his presence vexing.  
Just as she found him equally enticing. 

She groaned as she thought about him, both from her self-aware and admitted idolization, and her conflicted feelings regarding his advances on her.  
He was cruel, needlessly so, and laughed at her misfortunes. He said her name wrong at every instance, purposely sexualizing it so she was riled and flushed with embarrassment. He didn’t seem to respect her, yet he also did not place unrealistic expectations on her. When he’d asked for more stone walls and she told him her limits, he didn’t call her incompetent once he understood the limitations, the effort needed. He’d just asked her to make them, as many as she could so they’d be at the ready in the future. He, in his own way, didn’t tolerate discord in the ranks, and he saw her as an asset. She wasn’t told to sit on the sides, called useless or weak. She was given a role that he relied on, that was vital and crucial to his plans. 

Such things didn’t escape her notice. They didn’t make her resent him. They didn’t make her loathe him. Where the Grand Master was kind, he was cold and calculating. She knew that he saw the world though a different lens. She was born here, raised here. War was distant, the horrors and necessities never seen, never known or considered.  
Yet he lived with them, crafted them, created war and chaos with the intent to conquer. He was a demon with the mask of a man.

She hated if anything, it was that should could not blame him for being so different. It was because he was different that he had power that all others lacked. It was because of his brutality, his cunning and ruthlessness that he was victorious. It was because he was a drifter, and she was his Octoberist. 

It was so twisted to think of herself as part of his army, his to command, and order. Yet it gave her purpose, it gave her pride and hope of their efforts.  
It made her thoughts travel to the darkness where he lurked, waiting with a manic grin and cunning commands. His touch was rough and demanding, bringing her to heel and to attention. It sparked her obedience, her desire to serve and please her superiors. She’d felt the same for the Grand master once, but he did not touch her, he did not demand and command like the demon king.

Demon desires, she masked her woken needs with embarrassment and anger. Yet he saw through her mask, his eye looking too deep into her own. Yet there was a mark of his kindness. He never said anything, never remarked of how her breath caught, of how when he touched her in passing how she’d lean in, push against his palm, the soft moan and he’d squeeze and twist and pinch.

He was greedy and selfish and would not give up that which was his. His Octoberist. His conquest of her.

Alone in an office she looked at the scattered notes. He’d left not long ago, and his gaze had lingered on her when he’d gone, a single order for her and her alone.  
“Stay and organize. We’ll need to explain the plans to Seimei and probably Toyohisa… again.” So she did as she was told. Staying, cleaning, organizing. He did this often, picking her for menial clerical tasks, but had told her she was the only one he trusted to do so. The count would only be an ally so long as he would benefit. The archer and samurai were not stupid, but lacked the skills, and the old man. Well. He was senile. So it fell to Olminu naturally, as he could only trust her.

Alone, she was left with her thoughts, and they just drifted to him. The demon king drifter. The man who made her scream at night in anger and desires hidden.

With a final shuffle of papers she set them away, the soft glow of candlelight casting deep shadows towards the door. Her thoughts drifted, and his hands drifted to her waist.  
Black powder. Musk. Sweat and Earth. He was male and filthy and yet her body relaxed to his touch after she recognized him. He smelled like war. Not battle, but war itself. Heat and fire in his skin, his hands dragged their warmth up her body to cup her breasts and kneed the soft mounds.  
His breath smelled of ale and stew, nothing that should have elicited her desires, yet there she was. Standing in the office of a dead Verlina administrator, war plans filed to her side as the foreign commander took liberties with her body. 

He said nothing, and he did not kiss her neck like a lover might. He breathed against her skin, his tongue running up the side of her neck and drawing out her soft sighs, the airy moans she kept hidden from all others.  
His hands squeezed her chest and her back arched, curving into his taller, broader form. He bit her, pulling her into him, his darkness, his embrace. He was the demon king, and he would not be denied.  
She wouldn’t refuse him.  
She couldn’t refuse him, even if she had wanted to. 

“No-“ She wanted to call out to him, but his grip tightened, became painful and she whimpered. Silent, this was his unspoken command, one she obeyed. She remained still, letting him touch her, indulge in her, soft whimpers and moans betraying her body’s need and want. He smiled against her skin, and she could see it in her mind. Cruel, tormenting, mocking. His smile haunted her and she adored it’s promise of pain and suffering with equal parts reward. 

He left her there, trembling, legs shaking and body burning for that which he drew from her core and drove her to seek him to fulfill. His laughter echoed in the hall as he left, knowing she’d follow him. Into battle, into his war, his conquest, of her soul and sanity.

No one ever asked her where she went, no one sought her out but him. No one questioned when she did not appear for dinner, or ask when she would arrive, red and flushed with shame and unquenched lust.  
No one questioned her as she walked the hall of the building they’d taken over, no one stopped her as she slipped into the room he’d claimed. 

Illicit, debauched, sinful and indulgent. He knew her want, he knew her cravings, her weakness and her loathing of it all. She was to be commanded. He was her commander.  
He was older, yet he was not unappealing. Age looked well on him, and it drew her wonder as to what kind of a life he’d lived. She could never ask though, a thing he’d made clear when he’d drawn her in. This was transient. Attachment wasn’t to linger for them, and the past was to be the past. And after every night in the darkness they shared, they were to ignore the actions. Erase them from memory.

His hand outstretched, beckoning, she went to it, wordlessly getting on her knees before him, letting him manipulate her, mold her to his liking. Domination, command, he knew what he wanted, and took it. Hot hands, rough and calloused running over her bare skin. Pulling the layers of her white uniform away. Exposing her for what she was. A simple human, a woman who had been lucky enough to be skilled in magic and know her place.  
His thumb across her lips, she licked at the digit, moaning when he slipped it into her mouth, sucking softly, thinking of other parts of him. His skin tasted of salt and soot. He smiled at her as she lapped at his finger, his free hand running to her hair and the ties. Pale blonde strands fell over her skin and she saw his gentleness then and he ran fingers through the tresses. Pleased, he enjoyed the sight of her, bare, unbound. 

She crawled to his lap, hands working on his own clothes. Strange and layered, he’d taught her how to undress him. How to peel away the top, to undo the ties with her teeth, to glide down his body and drag cloth with her. To lay at his feet, his clothes under her, his form bare and exposed as her own. He pulled her up by her hand, and there were no kisses, no gentle lover’s gaze. Just command, demonic control and want. She sighed in his grip kissing his neck and chin, but never his lips. Forbidden, it was too intimate, to close. 

So she found his affections in other ways. Climbing up his body and sliding down. Running her breasts to his muscled chest, moaning at the taught skin, the fine hairs. His hands on her ass, roughly squeezing, digging into the soft flesh. Pulling her cheeks apart to chuckle at her flush, her whispered pleas to not gaze upon her in such a way, at her rear so perversely. Yet still it made her moan, shiver when he’d glide a finger from her soaked core to the puckered entrance. He’d leave her trembling; equal parts want and fear at the threat of penetration. His cruelty to torment her, his kindness to never violate her against her will. Lines unspoken, they did not cross the threshold of true fear and pain. 

He’d told her once he was many things, but he’d not scare her from his bed over a moment of satisfaction. He preferred her like this, pliant and willing. He enjoyed her baring herself and her need for him. She was his, but not forever.

Never forever was their promise on these dark nights. 

Guided low, she was sent to his need, his dark desire and their filthy secret. Thick, he weighed heavy in her hands. He tasted like salt and something primal in her mouth. She loved this part of him too. The base act he’d encourage her to commit. Hands massaging her scalp and gently guiding her to satisfy him. The coarse hair that tickled her chin and nose when she’d sink down to his root.  
Moans and whimpers, the sound of wet flesh, saliva and semen dripping down her chin as he’d thrust into her mouth. Gentle, gentle at first, but then he’d pull her hair, sent pain through her eyes with the pleasure of him between her lips. 

Commanding, he’d pull her away before his release, before she would reach her own nirvana, a mutual satisfaction. His voice haunted her, that dark chuckle that wetted her lusts and thighs. She looked so lewd he told her. Spit and precum running down her chin, eyes glazed over with lust and her chest heaving with her needy pants and reedy whines. Sinful, debauched, she was the image of submission. Of stolen innocence. She was all he relished in his conquests.  
She was utterly controlled, at his whims, catered to his wants, willing and pliant.

He bade her to clean herself with a scrap of cloth and she did so, staying on her hands and knees and giving him reign to tease at her entrance. Clear sticky liquid ran down her thighs, and her folds were pink and swollen with desire. Each touch of his rough calloused fingers drew a new sound, a new reaction from her, and when he brushed her clit, she mewled helplessly and lowered herself to the floor, ass in the air.

She was ready for him, waiting for him, and begging him as again and again she whimpered his name, her only plea for completion. He was unkind, toying with her, stroking her moist lips and parting them to the open air. Crooning about her position, her base lust and need. His smile was manic and his touch torment, yet Olminu loved it. This teasing, this sexual torture he submitted her too. She relished his denial, his control and restraint. 

Like a bitch in heat he remarked, pulling her hips closer to the bed, closer to him. She trembled at the first touch on her hips, guiding her up to stand. He did not want a loyal dog. He wanted a loving whore. He wanted her riding his cock like it gave her life. He wanted to see her breasts bouncing as he violated her, see her face contort with pleasure as he’d fuck her into the mattress. Spun so she faced him, she knew the position well, it was one he preferred, one she relished in how close she could be to him and his body. 

Her legs straddling his over the edge of the bed, her breasts within reach of his hands and mouth, her ass in his large, rough hands. And slowly, he guided her over his length, the tantalizing brush of his thick cock on her wet sex leaving her arching. Moaning, and begging for him. 

Then he gave into her wants, he gave her reward for her obedience, her subservience, her submission. Pulled sharply down his length she cried out once, the sound of their flesh meeting echoing in the room. Her hands clung to his shoulders, fingers digging into taught tanned skin and tangling in long black hair. His own hands claimed her ass, guiding her up and down with harsh thrusts, his hips lifting enough to go deep into her core. Rough and demanding, the pace was punishing and brutal perhaps to what many would call lovemaking, but that wasn’t what Nobunaga could provide her with. He fucked. He claimed. He dominated. He chased his own pleasure and had molded Olminu to suit his need. 

She was pliant. A work of art, a sexual masterpiece made for his pleasure. 

She was his Octoberist. His lover.

She moaned softly into his ear, her breaths hot to his skin, her soft calls of his name, begging him for more, for harder, deeper, faster- commands he would give her- satisfied a primal part of him, and she relished in the knowledge. She could offer this to him, no other. He looked at her like this, a being of worth, of use, of merit. He looked at her like he would possesses her for not just this act of carnal embrace, but for so much more. Not love, never love, but so much to be used, gained. 

She did not scream or cry out his name to the sky, she knew too well what their act would mean if caught. She wasn’t supposed to favor, to attach herself yet there she was. Attached intimately with the demon king, his cock filling her and offering her what no other man had.  
He was close, hands lifting her to toss her onto the bed proper, to lift her leg and toss it over his shoulder while she lay on her side, open and waiting for him to return.

Return he did. Violently, he slammed into her wet and wanting center, her scream muffled by bed sheets. Hips met hips in wet sounds, sweat slick skin slapping and creating a symphony of sin in the room. His growls, his words were as lewd as him, reminding her how she looked, how well her cunt took cock, how she was tight and wet and squeezing him, body begging for cum.

He slapped her thigh and she’d shook and trembled, mewing into cloth and looking up at him through strands of her pale hair. His smile, his grin made her heart stop. The smile of a victory. Of a conquest completed. She would cry out only a second time when her orgasm tore through her senses. Face locked to his, mouth open and eyes wide with passion and satisfaction. She could feel him inside her then, thick and throbbing. Rubbing over her inner walls and brushing against that bundle of nerves that sent her into oblivion. 

He never shouted when he came, pouring his salty thick seed into her, he only laughed in triumph. Looming over her body, he’d laugh and thrust as deep as their positions would allow before spent, he’d pull out and roll to the side. 

There were no post-cloital cuddles. No soft touches and assuring words. Just his silence and smile. It was one of the few times it was sincere, and she cherished such moments. He helped her clean the evidence of their union. Checked her skin for signs of his claiming of her body. His hands ran over her clothes, adjusting them to hide evidence. They knew these risks, the chance of discovery. 

She waited behind him as he checked the hall outside the door. When he motioned it was safe, she slipped away, the heat of his gaze burning into her back as she left him there. 

She wished she could hate him, the monster, the drifter, the demon king who haunted her thoughts.  
Yet the feeling of his touch was too much to ignore, the tender throb of her used sex too real to dismiss. He had commanded her obedience, her submission, her surrender. He was her commander, she his Octoberist.

And twistedly, she loved him for it.


End file.
